


Pity

by chimericalEscapist (Adasser)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Minor Violence, Recreational Drug Use, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 22:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5843359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adasser/pseuds/chimericalEscapist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short practice to get back into the business.</p>
<p>Eridan either sees himself in Dave or projects the same.  Dave's pride is too strong to be pitied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pity

The smoke burns like fire in your lungs, but Dave looks too collected for you to let yourself cough. You hand him the joint, and his features light up orange-red from the cherry as he inhales long and slow. It’s almost too dark to see his eyes, bloodshot and weary behind the shades he wears, even now. 

You try not to cringe when he passes back to you. Either you don’t succeed or you take too long, because his eyes are on you all too suddenly, burgundy in the hazy veil between the two of you. His uncharacteristic silence settles heavy cold in your middle, from your gut to the base of your spine.

“Are you good?” he asks, and you aren’t sure what “good” means, but you nod anyway; your voice is caught somewhere in your lungs below all the smoke. 

He stubs out the light on the concrete beside his hip. The distraction allows you to trace the lines of his body, his sloped back, gangly arms poking out of his t-shirt, bony elbows, knobby knees, all crisp sharp-white against the darkness. Something stirs in your stomach—feelings, pale, flushed; you’re not sure which—and you frown. 

“Stop looking at me like it’s pail-filling time.” 

It’s supposed to sting, but your feelings are muffled by the blanket of grey that has settled in your head.

“You look like shit,” you say, without really meaning to.

His lips twitch; you’re not sure in which direction, but you know he’s not oblivious to how you feel about him. “I don’t need your pity.”

You already knew it was unrequited, but irritation still blooms in your chest. As if it were something you could turn off. “Then don’t be so fuckin’ pathetic.” 

He bristles.

His hand is wrapped around your neck before you realize he’s moving. He’s red-hot against your skin, fierce under the surface. You know his play too well—you practically invented this.

“If you kill ev-veryone w-who pities you right now-w,” you say, knowing you’re playing a dangerous game but if you were worried about that you would have folded already, “There w-won’t be anyone left.” 

He should scare you, you think, as he pushes your back into the concrete, or at least he should make you burn black, but his heat against you feels too much like desperation for his threats to ring genuine. It’s possible you’re projecting.

“Why did you come see me?” he asks, hovering over you.

You should’ve expected that he would ask that eventually. 

“Companionship,” you say, licking your dry lips. He’s the only person whose self-worth is low enough to tolerate you. 

“That shit is so bull it has to turn sideways to go through doors,” he snarls. You are tangentially aware that he’s calling you out.

“I don’t know-w w-what you w-want from me.” 

The anger on his face falters only long enough for you to glimpse the empty look you’ve seen in the mirror too often, but then he hits your head too hard on the concrete and your vision goes a little cross. “I want you to stop looking at me like I’m on my death bed,” he growls, and he throttles you again. “I want you to tell me the truth when I’m asking you questions.” The world spins, and the pain is sharp and dull at the back of your head, but you can’t blame him for hating the way you feel. You hate it too. 

You reach your hand up, and he doesn’t stop you, and you feel the chilly moisture of your blood mixed in with your hair. You look at the purple on your fingertips, show it to him. 

He hisses and lets you go, swinging his leg off you. He’s still pissed, but it’s like he’s not sure what to do with himself. His fingers clench and unclench at his thighs. You lie motionless next to him while your head throbs. 

“Why don’t you fight back?” 

“I don’t know-w,” you say. “I don’t know-w,” you repeat when he doesn’t look like he believes you, “But I do know-w w-what lashin' out looks like.”

“You’re supposed to defend yourself.” He’s not looking at you, but instead staring at his hands. 

“I didn’t hav-ve to.” 

He’s quiet for a long time. You don’t want to move. 

“I don’t need your pity,” he says again. 

“I know-w. It’s still yours if you w-want it.”


End file.
